


Maremmas and Potatoes

by we_are_the_story



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: A pig catches on fire, Based Heavily off my Aunt's Farm, Bisexual disaster Lance, Chaotic Grocery Runs, Early Moring Jogs, Engineering Major Hunk, F/M, Farm gay Keith, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Holiday to Gumboots Farm, Implied Bottom Keith, Likes it's basically identical except the house, M/M, Maremma sheepdogs, Marine Biologist Lance (Voltron), Protective Hunk, Robotics Major Pidge, Shiro still has a prosthetic, a goat called Pippa, a truck full of potatoes for the pigs, bark scratches on back, but i might be adding more tags, farm life, heavy make outs, implied top Lance, this is all what will be in the fic, three hour drive to nearest major town
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 03:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17035530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/we_are_the_story/pseuds/we_are_the_story
Summary: With their degrees finally finished and their stress declared useless (for now), Hunk, Lance and Pidge decide they need a break before beginning their journey into a full-time job. Being the Responsibly Adults they are, they decide to go on a holiday to a farm five hours away from their homes, where the air is clean, the vegetables are fresh, and the silicone ducks stuck to the bottom of the bath are the colours of Voltron. So cool!Keith grew up on the farm. Gumboots farm is all he has ever known. He knows cows and pigs and crops and trucks and tractors and dogs and grease. He knows nothing about the city, but city people come through the farm constantly, looking for all the excitement of a farm, but leaving before it gets too dirty, so when a group of three friends book to spend three months living the ‘exciting farm experience,’ he’s not expecting much. Nor is he particularly interested.What does catch him by surprise is how much he ends up liking them.And as often as Keith found himself staring at Lance’s shoulders, he would be leaving in a few months. There’s no point.Right?





	Maremmas and Potatoes

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. So. 
> 
> I’m doing this. I’m going for a multi-chapter fic because all the other fucking stories I have lined up for this pairing is supposed to be multi chapter, but I never have enough steam to actually keep going past the first, carefully constructed chapter that I spent way too much time on. Hopefully I can get it all done by the time 2019 finishes. Depending on how long this story ends up being. I want it to be 80,000-100,000, but I’ve never written that much for one thing, ever. So. I don’t know how it’s going to go. I also am aiming to post a new chapter once a week or once a fortnight. Fingers crossed.
> 
> But! I’m going to try. I’m going to give this idea all I’ve got and keep going even when I’m tired. Because I want to do this. I like writing and I fucking love this pairing so fucking much it feels like I can’t breathe sometimes. And I want you all to read it. And I want to feel some kind of achievement.
> 
> So. Let’s get to it. 
> 
> Welcome to Gumboots Farm.

 

A steep-capped toe tapped impatiently at the exposed bone of Keith’s ankle.

“Keith,” said Shiro. “Keith. Keith. Keith. Keith.”

Sweat dripping down the side of his neck, Keith grunted wordlessly and flicked his thump at the faulty fuse and exposed copper wire shoved deep within engine of the the farm’s oldest vehicle, right between the heat of the engine and radiator. “The fuck do you want?” He snapped, squinting at the mess of red plastic and shining metal, as if it had been gnawed at by a small rodent. Keith’s glowing head torch did nothing to help him see anything, nor did the aggressively flickering LED light dangling from the ceiling like old man’s uvula.

Keith straightened and began digging through the mess of wires in the cracked ice-cream container next to his red tool box atop the rusted trolley. The ancient thing squeaked and trembled alarmingly every time the wheels jostled over one of the multitude of cracks in the cement. The second shelf held filthy, black-stained rags stripped from his old shirts, an open tin of oil and a very, very old stiff bush that hadn’t been cleaned the last time it had been used. The last shelf housed a singular paper plate, three plastic forks and a glass half filled with what once might have been drinkable liquid. The entire thing listed hazardously to the right but had yet to actually fall.

“The visitors are going to be here in about an hour,” Shiro told him, eyes filled with amusement as they flitted over his bare chest and at the black stains marring his stomach where he’d been leaning against the car. “You should probably get cleaned up.”

“I’m good, thanks,” Keith said, scowling at the massive tangle before him. Come to think of it, he would probably need new wires, not the old ones. He sighed and lifted his head before wiping at his cheek with an even greasier hand.

When he finally looked up, Shiro’s exasperation showed in the faint frown etched on his mouth. “It’s simple social etiquette, Keith,” Shiro pushed. “To appear at least semi human.”

Shiro had a way of making anyone feel guilty about anything, but Keith just shrugged his shoulders and dug into his toolbox for the green electrical tape that would hopefully hold the wires together for at least another couple of days. Plenty of time to buy brand new wire.

“Says the guy with the cyborg arm.”

Now, how to. . .?

Shiro huffed. “At least have a shower and put better clothes on. At least.”

“There’s no point,” Keith sighed, voice muffled by the tape as he ripped it between his teeth and turned to wrap the wires back into working order. “I’m just going to get dirty again.”

“That’s not the point,” Shiro said. “You want to make a good impression, don’t you?”

Keith snorted. “Me? Care about first impressions? Pull the other one, Takashi.”

Shiro folded his arms. “Well, mum said I can use anything at my disposal to get you to shower.”

Hesitating, Keith slowly finished with the wires and faced Shiro, eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

Shiro shrugged. “I don’t know. Black mail? Bribery? Make you feel bad? Threated you with bodily harm? Tell you how one of them is quite attractive and very bisexual?”

Keith stared at him. “Shiro, do you honestly think I care about any of that?”

“Well, I thought maybe the last one.” Shiro looked at him expectantly.

“You thought wrong.”

“Mum also wants to know if you want to show them around the place, or if she and dad should do it.”

Keith paused. “Do I have a choice in the matter?”

Screw it, he’d just hide if she forced him to.

Shiro smirked faintly. “Well,” he drawled. “I convinced her that it might not be the greatest idea to have the gay kid show kids his own age, including one boy who is _also_ interested in boys, around the farm. That’s just mean. Like dangling a carrot in front of a starving bunny. Or holding a raw steak just out of reach of a hungry lion, or something. Cruel.”

“You have got to be kidding me,” Keith said.

Shiro snickered. “That’s not the worst part! She agreed with me!”

At least he didn’t have to show them around anymore.

“Oh no,” Keith deadpanned. “Whatever will I do? I’m so desperate to get laid I’ll take any boy’s attention. I can’t keep it in my pants.”

“That’s not—” Shiro gasped, bending over to lean against his knees. “That’s not what she was worried about. She said, and I quote, ‘Oh, yes. They are all very beautiful people, but Lance is just Keith’s type and Keith isn’t very good with words. Best introduce them slowly. Keith might scare them off.’ And I happened to agree.”

Keith pursed his lips. “I’m disowning you.”

Shiro fluttered his lashes, laced his hands beneath his chin and crooned, “’Oooh, look at me, my name’s Keith and whenever I find someone attractive I get angry and insult them to their face!’”

“I do _not_ sound like that!” Keith squawked.

“Remember when I chauffeured your first date? That was hilarious. It was all, ‘Sorry, but I find your mannerisms abhorrent. But it’s okay, your face is great!’”

Keith’s face flushed despite himself. “That was a long time ago.”

“It was two years ago, Keith.”

“Yeah well—” Keith spluttered, struggling. “At least I don’t have performance issues!”

Shiro abruptly stopped laughing and stared at him, grin gone, mocking gone. In its place his face lost its colour, then darkened into a red so vibrant, Keith almost looked to his toolbox to compare. “What? I don’t—How did you—that wasn’t even—I can’t believe you would—ugh!”

Keith put the lid back over the wires. “If you don’t leave me alone I’m going to tell Allura what happened on the day before your eighteenth birthday,” Keith said, smirking at him.

Shiro stared. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me, bitch,” Keith snarked back.

Stalemate.

Keith bit back a smug grin.

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment before Shiro cracked and threw his hands in the air. “Alright,” he relented, backing away slowly towards the large open entrance that was the fourth wall of the repair shed. “Alright, fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Because I god-damned warned you!”

Keith watched until Shiro was passed the wrought iron wall and turned to walk along the well-walked trail towards the large, two story brick house they called home.

“Performance issues, Shiro,” Keith shouted after him, grinning. “ _Performance issues!”_

“Fuck off!” Came Shiro’s aggravated reply.

Left alone, Keith chuckled to himself and slammed the hood of the car before reaching to scoop his black shirt from the bottom of the glass window—where he’d thrown it after overheating—and shoved it on. He moved the trolley to the empty wall space beside the wobbly wooden desk cluttered with screwed up paper, spare nuts and bolts, empty plastic cups and several well used, and well gnawed on graphite pencils. The chair was worn and sprouted yellowing fluff, while spiderwebs clung to the legs and hung in the space beneath the seat, one fat spider dangling upside down. Keith tucked the chair under the bench and washed his hands in the sink, using the old crusty, cracked soap. He should swap it out with liquid handwash one of these days.

He jolted as a wet, sandpaper tongue scraped his calf. He looked down.

“Hi, Bella,” he said, drying his hands quickly with a threadbare towel.

She must’ve been drawn to the shed by the commotion. Being a Maremma sheepdog, she was long haired and white, while remaining the same size as a full-grown German Shepard. She was also fiercely loyal and protective of the whole farm, and a guardian to all the animals housed on the property. Including the hundreds of pig and sheep, the coop full of chickens, their one goat, Pippa, the orphan lamb Bella had found a couple of weeks ago, and the runaway puppy they’d named Rover.

He reached down and stroked behind her ears, smiling wider as she flopped onto her side. “Hey, girl. Are your pups exhausting you?”

Keith peered towards the direction he knew the puppies liked to hide in the heat; the shade of the caravan parked outside the shed. It was ancient and crooked, the wheels devoid of any air, and the steps rusted through, but he could see the lumps of white fur beneath. The puppies were still too young to be adopted, but otherwise old enough to wander and explore. “It’s alright, Bella. They’re going to grow up quickly. This suffering’s only temporary.”

She whined under his hand and rolled onto her back, legs twitching in excitement. Keith laughed quickly and stood, knees cracking. He groaned, kneading at the knot in his shoulder, and rolled his neck.

Soon bored, Bella got back to her feet and trotted off to the chicken coop, paws kicking up dry dirt the whole way, tail swishing.

Keith flicked his wrist over to check the fading and smudged red ink on the back of his hand. He rolled his eyes.

_Make new chicken house_

_Clean out hydroponics_

_Fix car—fuse?_

_Collect potatoes – feed pigs_

_Spray weeds_

Keith grinned and rubbed his hands together, then strolled over to the large tarp-covered lump placed in the open space between the truck and the one other still dead pile of shit, rusted as fuck, car shoved against the wall. “Finally.” Keith wrenched the cracked blue tarp from the old red 1963 Harley Davidson he’d found a week ago among the scrap heap three hours away.

Exactly where it shouldn’t ever end up.

He’s almost cried when he’d spotted it, and thus began what might have been the longest day of his life.

Despite having left at six o’clock in the morning, he didn’t properly get home until nine o’clock that night. He had driven three hours to get to the scrap yard, spend two hours looking around before finding the treasure, placed it on hold, drove all the way back to the farm, took the tow truck, made his way back to the dump and took the poor bike back.

Of course, his mother had made him promise not to work on it until all the jobs that had been pushed aside for months were completed. So, now, here he was, ready to truly begin working on fixing this beauty up to its former glory.

“Alright,” Keith cooed, grinning manically. “Let’s get this started.”

 

***

 

The beige ford carefully meandered through the narrow and windy road lined with large trees overgrown with greenery and spindly branches like fingers on a hand. Little green bushes sprouted in the space between the trunks. On either side, a fence made from barbed wire and old branch cut-offs planted in the ground separated the road and trees from fields of wheat sprawled as far as the eye could see. Light brown and nearing harvest, the wheat heads were like an ocean in the wind—susurrating and hypnotic.

Lance scowled out the window, chewing fast at a sour-worm. His fingers crinkled the plastic.

“Hunk, tell Pidge to stop stealing my snacks.”

Sat in the front seat, thumbs moving quickly over the Nintendo switch propped on her lap that had taken over six months of intensive labour to save the money for, Pidge didn’t even bother looking up from the screen, face screwed up in concentration as she tried vehemently to beat the level before they arrived at the property gate.

“Hunk, tell Lance to stop being a little bitch.”

Hunk exhaled heavily, eyeing the rear-view mirror.

“Hunk, tell Pidge to stop stealing the front seat when I clearly said shotgun first.”

“Hunk, tell Lance that he’s still being a little bitch.”

“Fuck you, too, Pidgy-poo!” Lance snarled, stuffing a Dorito into his mouth before crunching down on it will a little too much gusto. He winced as the corn chip sliced into his gum. He tasted copper.

“Quit it, or you’re walking the rest of the way,” Hunk threatened, peering out his window to avoid a branch, wincing as the leaves scraped against the glass.

Pidge shrugged. “You wouldn’t do that to me. Lance? Yeah. Me? No.”

“Excuse me!?” Lance screeched, sitting up rigidly from his slouched position. “How _dare_ you?”

Hunk slammed on the breaks, effectively cutting off Pidge’s reply as their seatbelts jerked. “Out.”

Pidge paused her game and stared at him. Lance blinked, half-chewed sour-worm falling from his mouth.

“Did I stutter?” Hunk said, eyes trained ahead of him. “Out. Now.”

“Hunk—”

“But—”

“Now!” Hunk yelled, punching the wheel. “I’m sick of it! You’ve been arguing for the last three hours! This is my car, this is not a playground or school or movie night! This is me being fed up with your behaviour! I am not your parent! I am your best friend! Get out of my car!”

Pidge and Lance scrambled out the car as one and stood in silence among the bloom of red dust as Hunk drove away.

“Nice going, Pidge,” Lance said.

“You started it!”

“You were stealing my snacks, that _I_ bought, with my own money!”

“You were hogging the front seat first!”

“My knees are up to my chin in the back seat!”

“I get car sick.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Who says?”

“ _You,_ just before we started this god damned trip!”

“Right.”

Lance wordlessly offered his nearly empty bag of Doritos and Pidge took a handful.

“Well,” Lance said. “What was the name again?”

“Humfoods farm?” Pidge replied, not even bothering to swallow.

Lance swivelled and squinted at them. “Are you sure about that?”

Pidge swallowed twice and coughed. “Gumboots farm. And don’t meme.”

“But _Pidge_!”

“No. Not today!”

Pidge grabbed Lance’s wrist and started marching down the road with little more than an aggravated huff. Their feet kicked up dirt with each step and Lance squawked as they tugged his arm, shoulder pulling.

“Hey, don’t—Pidge!”

Five minutes later found them stumbling to a halt before a large gate. Attached crookedly by black zip-ties, a large wooden board boasted the name _Gumboots Farm_ in bold rainbow letters with a cartoon gumboot etched beneath it, and the LGBT flag shoved in a corner. It was obviously made by a hand that clearly didn’t have an artistic bone in their body, but he admired the dedication. Another long road continued straight behind it and curved to the right as it neared the farthest fence.

Lance squinted. “How long do you think this road is, anyway?”

Pidge shrugged, fiddling with the chain and peg keeping the gate closed. “Four lengths of a football field? I don’t know.”

The gate creaked open a second later and they both squeezed through, locking it after.

The road looked much less used than the dirt road between the properties, with grass peeking through in the middle, and small cracks adorned the edge of the path as if water had dried it too quickly and left it bereft the moisture it wanted.

To the left of them, a forest of trees spread far enough back that Lance couldn’t see through to the other side. Old logs and tall grass littered the undergrowth, while towering oaks and pine loomed overhead, casting a deep shadow from the setting sun, the red glowing bright between them. Another fence sectioned it off from the road.

Lance swivelled his head to the right and could only see a brown ocean lit up red and orange from the sun. He shifted his gaze and spotted the large brick homestead atop the hill in the distance, perhaps another seven field lengths away. Windows took up the expanse of the closest wall, reflected so blindingly that Lance had to turn away and trace his eyes along the path up to the house.

“It’s like twice that length after it turns,” Lance groaned, kicking at a loose rock.

“Ugh!”

Lance shoved his fingers through his hair. “God, I knew Hunk was annoyed, but I didn’t actually think he’d chuck us out the car!”

“Are we talking about the same Hunk?” Pidge asked, side-eyeing him. “Because of course he booted us out the car! He’s _Hunk!_ Have you ever known him to bluff or not follow through with his threats?” She laughed suddenly. “Remember that boy in our astrophysics class that refused to leave that girl alone, and Hunk threatened to show him exactly what it felt like to be cornered like that? Seeing Hunk turn to predatory and creepy on that boy was both hilarious and terrifying. And then he just _smiles_ afterwards? God that was great.”

Lance snickered. “That was nothing compared to when a girl lead me on.”

Pidge’s foot slid as she whirled on him. “What?”

“It was before you transferred, in our sophomore year.”

“You never told me about it,” Pidge said, a questioning lit to her tone. “So what happened?”

“Well, I—” Lance hesitated. “I’ve been known to be vulnerable to that kind of thing, so he said that every time someone ever did that to me, male or female, he’d have something to say about it.”

They rounded the bend and Lance stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.

“You do wear your heart on your sleeve.” Pidge paused a beat. “What’d he do?”

“He, uh. . .” Lance laughed lowly, humourlessly. “He said what comes around goes around, so when I was humiliated in front of the whole class, he had a conversation with them that lasted over half an hour and the next day they apologised to me in front of everyone, and never approached me again.”

“What did he say to them?” Pidge asked.

Lance shrugged. “He never told me, so I never asked.”

“Huh,” Pidge muttered. “Hunk is a big soft, completely _psychotic,_ overprotective teddy bear.”

“You got that right,” Lance said.

“Yeah.”

Both walked in silence again as they passed the row of five young trees surrounded by wooden pallets spaced out ten meters from each other. The warm air ruffled their hair and clothes as they strolled, and Lance felt as if he could disappear into the free scent of the outdoors. But then he sniffed harder and gagged, slapping a hand over his nose.

“Oh, god,” he rasped. “What the hell is _that?”_

Pidge lifted her head and wrinkled her nose. “Smells like a pigsty.”

The last corner approached and suddenly they were standing in the entrance to a large asphalt driveway. It was separate from the house by a waist high fence made of brick and mortar, and maybe three cars long and two cars wide, with a four-wheel drive in white, a shining black truck and a red motor-bike splattered with dried brown clay. Hunk’s car was parked behind the bike.

“Looks like they’re already inside,” Lance said, cupping his hands over his eyes to peek into the back of Hunk’s car. “Yep, there’s our bags. Not Hunk’s. He must have left ours in here as another punishment.”

Pidge grumble was indiscernible.

He popped the door and lugged his two blue duffle bags before taking Pidge’s own green bags. Three of them.

“Thanks.”

“You know, Pidge,” Lance panted. “I don’t understand why you had to bring _over half of your equipment!_ ”

“Because I’m going to be bored otherwise,” Pidge replied nonchalantly, grabbing all three in her arms and marching towards the small wrought iron gate with little effort. “Besides you brought nearly all your cosmetics.”

“We’re here to have fun!” Lance shouted after her, slamming the boot shut. “That’s the whole point! This is supposed to be a vacation!”

“Good luck with that!”

Lance rolled his eyes and picked up his bags, pulling the straps up to his shoulders. He made his way through the still swinging gate, closed it after himself and walked up the small concrete step of the wrap-around patio to the sliding glass door with those hexagonal markings in the middle to stop people running into them. He stopped before it, pulled the door open and crossed the threshold.

“Lance!” Hunk leered, leaning against the large island counter made from white marble. “Took your time.”

Hunk stood beside the owners of the farm, who were smiling faintly.

On the website, their picture was grainy and blurry, as if taken in passing by a person in a speeding car. Lance had squinted at the screen and seen only dark hair, pale skin and the slight height advantage the woman had over the man. Now, in much more detail, Lance noticed their shared Asian descent, but Lance didn’t want to make a fool of himself by assuming they were from the same country. There were no real telling features that hinted at a background other than Angelo Saxon without resorting to cruel racist stereotypes, though Lance could see it in the colour of their eyes and hair just like Lance could see Cuba in his skin.

And he was reminded of his own parents in the curve of their lips as they smiled at him. He could see his father in the twinkle of the man’s eyes and the slope of his broad shoulders. His mother was reflected in the angle of the woman’s jaw and the laugh lines around her eyes. They were so painfully familiar, and yet so different, Lance’s own grin widened.

In the photograph, two other people stood on each side, both male, both darked haired and paled skinned, both with their arms crossed. One over a head taller than the other.

“Your arm—!” Pidge squealed from his right and launched themselves across the white tiles to a man who stood with his arms folded, a white tuft of hair feathering his forehead. There was a silver scar over the bridge of his nose.

His arm was white with blue accents at the joints. A prosthetic. And despite the bemused expression on his face he seemed perfectly content to let Pidge inspect the joints and ramble on about their own robotics project, which they had brought with them. The evidence was right there on the floor. The man had lifted his head at Hunk’s greeting and waved awkwardly with his other hand.

Lance dropped his bags to the ground. “Hello beautiful humans!” Lance said, spreading his arms.

“Speak for yourself,” Pudge muttered, finally dropping the poor man’s arm.

“How was the walk?” Hunk said cheekily.

“Brilliant!” Lance cheered. “Thanks for asking. It really cleared my senses and made me realise what _great_ friends I have! Love ‘em so much I just want to squeeze them until they all _die.”_

“Lovely.”

Lance then turned his attention to the woman. “Hello, beautiful,” he grinned.

Hunk face palmed.

“You must be Lance,” she said. “I’m Nancy Shirogane, it’s great to finally meet you in person.”

Lance laughed, walking forwards to shake her hand. “The pleasure is all mine. I’ve been psyched for months about staying here, seriously. It’s going to be a blast.”

“And we are looking forward to spending time with three beautiful people such as yourselves.”

Lance blushed. “Oh, stop,” he said, flapping his wrist about for a moment before facing the man in a fluid movement until he stood before him hand out. “Hello, handsome.”

For a moment Xavier just stared down at him, face as cold as ice and made of stone. He said slowly, almost angrily, “Don’t call me handsome.”

Lance froze. “Uh. . .”

The man’s face was deadpanned as he said, “I’m beautiful, thank you _very_ much. My God, the insanity. Nancy, we can’t let these heathens live here for eight weeks, they’re going to ruin my pride _and_ my self-esteem.”

Lance could hear Pidge cackling in the background, but all Lance could do was pout and cross his arms. Hunk just looked highly amused.

“Don’t tease him, dear,” Nancy reprimanded, slapping his arm. “He’s not used to your humour.”

“But it’s so fun to mess with them,” Xavier said.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Pidge said. “He’ll get you back.”

Lance frowned. “How?”

She shot him a smirk. “With your personality.”

Lance huffed and crossed his arms. “No fair.”

“Where’s the lie though?” Pidge asked.

Hunk chose not to comment and turned to the couple, a beaming smile on his face. “Could you show us where to drop off out stuff before we begin the tour?”

Nancy’s eyes widened. “Oh, yes! Of course! Come this way.” She spun around, long purple skirt swishing around her knees and headed towards the staircase situated against the far back wall. Xaviar and Shiro stayed behind. “All the bedrooms are upstairs except for mine and Xaviar’s, which is just off the kitchen; the door beside the pantry. We’ll know if you steal food!” She said jokingly as they reached the landing, and the corridor that continued to the right.

The floors were light and polished to a gleaming shine, running vertically right through the narrow hallway up until the large double paned window at the other end, the view showing the bitumen road and surrounding countryside. Lance could see perhaps two other houses, separated by a brown patchwork quilt of fields. Some paddocks were filled with sheep, some with cows, and one with what looked like llamas or alpacas, Lance wasn’t sure.

“Your rooms are on the right,” Nancy said, pointing. “Feel free to take more blankets and pillows from the linen closet downstairs in the middle of the night if you get cold. And the air conditioner is room specific, so there shouldn’t be any problem with difference in opinion.”

Pidge looked gleeful at this and Lance rolled his eyes. Pidge preferred a cooler environment so that she could snuggle in bed with more blankets to have the heavy weight on her, while Lance like to wear little with fewer blankets, so he turned the heat up. This had often caused arguments to break out between them until Hunk had to intervened.

Three light wooden doors were on one side of the hall, all wide open. On the other side were two closed doors, both with signs hanging from hooks telling the reader _do not enter._ A lovely quaint vase of lilies and a set of keys sat on a small table between the two doors.

“On the left are Takashi and Keith’s rooms, so please, unless they explicitly invite you inside, do not enter or even open the door. Keith especially.” She smirked slightly. “He likes his space, so don’t be surprised if it takes a couple of days for him to talk to you.”

Pidge and Hunk nodded in understanding. Lance squinted. “Is he here?”

Nancy covered her mouth and snorted. “He’s in the repair shed working on his bike at the moment. You’ll meet him later.”

Lance nodded and moved towards the first door on the right. It swung open silently to reveal the spacious room within. Bland and blank, they held nothing but what a hotel room might have:

  * Queen bed
  * Side tables
  * Dresser
  * Sleek television atop a small entertainment unit
  * A small kitchen with: 
    * Microwave
    * Sink
    * Kettle
    * Container of black tea, standard coffee, white sugar
    * Small fridge



Nancy spoke up. “All the rooms are identical down to the furniture, so you’re all getting the same thing. Save, I suppose for the trek downstairs and the colour of some accents,” she added. “The bathrooms are the same, too, except they’re situated on different sides of the room.”

Lance walked deeper and towards the adjacent wall to open the door for the small but classy bathroom, equipped with a fair-sized sink and shower/bath combination, and a toilet. Everything was white and sterilized, not a hair out of place—literally. “Nice,” Lance said, peering into the bath at the non-slip blue ducks stuck to the bottom.

“Oh my God!” Pidge shrieked suddenly from next door. “The ducks are GREEN! SHOT GUN THIS ROOM!”

“I’M HAVING THIS ONE!” Lance shouted back. “THERE’S BLUE DUCKS IN HERE!”

He heard Hunk’s responding, “I DON’T EVEN CARE THESE ONES ARE YELLOW!”

Nancy laughed. “I’m guessing you like them, then?”

Lance peeked into the hallway. “Are you kidding me? It’s like Voltron all over again! I’m the Sharpshooter blue paladin, Pidge is the genius hacker and Hunk’s the badass engineer!”

“Oh, you watch that show, too?” Nancy asked. “Takashi and Keith watch it every Thursday. They call themselves the Black and Red paladins? Their bathroom ducks are black and red.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “Is Keith impatient and susceptible to rash decisions?”

Nancy’s eyes twinkled as she nodded. “Oh, absolutely.”

Lance didn’t want to get his hopes up. “And does Shiro. . .lead with fairness, understanding and devastating badassery?”

Nancy hesitated. “He was team captain for the four years of high school and they never lost a game? Does that count?”

Lance paused, nose crinkling, before he threw his hands in the air. “Screw it, it counts! Pidge we found them!”

“FUCK YEAH!” Pidge screamed, launching herself out the room, face squished between her hands. “We have a whole team now! We have our leader and our samurai!”

There came a thump from Hunk’s room before his head popped out. “What was that?”

Pidge whirled around, bounding over to him, wrapping an arm around his neck to shove her fist into the top of his head. “We found number one and four! Hunk, we can play Voltron now!”

Hunk beamed. “Damn, I knew this was a good idea!”

Shiro’s voice boomed from below. “DID I HEAR VOLTRON?!”

Nancy caught Lance’s eye and shook her head. “I have no idea what’s going on.”

Pidge flew down the stairs. “SHIRO YOU’RE A BLACK PALADIN WE NEED A BLACK PALADIN WILL YOU BE OUR BLACK PALADIN AND KEITH CAN BE RED WE’VE BEEN WAITING YEARS MAN!”

“Man,” Lance sighed. “You are missing out! Okay so, there’s this group of people who are destined to be the paladins of this massive robot. . .”

“RED!”

 

***

 

Keith paused at the edge of the bitumen driveway.

There was another car. A beige ford.

“Fords, ugh,” he muttered, stalking past the frankly abhorrent brand of car and through the wrought iron gate, kicking it closed after himself. Bella’s runt from her first litter panted at him judgementally from beneath the wooden stairs with her wide blue eyes. She barked at him once before settling her head on her legs. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “It’s the car not the people I’m judging. They’re cheap for a reason and some people can’t afford better cars.”

Keith kicked his worn leather boots off and lined them up neatly with the others, then opened the door, hung the keys up on the hook with _Keith_ above it and raked his fingers through his frankly disgustingly messy hair. At least he’d washed it yesterday.

“Well, well, well,” Shiro drawled and Keith froze at his tone, eyes caught on the hole in his left black sock. It was smugness; the kind of smugness that Shiro used when his prediction had been proved absolutely correct. “Look who the cat dragged in.”

“RED!” A high pitched voice hollered a moment before a small girl with large round classes skidded before him. “How are you with the sword?!”

Another voice, male, shouted from upstairs. “HE’S HERE!?”

Keith frowned at the ceiling. “What?”

“Oh, he must have finished,” he heard his mother reply over the pounding of feet on stairs.

“C’mon!” She crowed, drawing his attention again. “We can’t have our Red Paladin be bad with blades! He’s the samurai!”

“Umm. . .”

“You know?” She held out her hand as if wielding a sword. “’Sharp work, Samurai!’ From Voltron?”

Keith blinked furiously.

Shiro laughed uproariously. “You must be joking! Keith had his own collection of knifes!”

Keith sneered. “At least I don’t have a collection of nail polish!”

“Hey, don’t diss nail polish!” Came the male voice from upstairs a second before a boy his age jumped the last few stairs and landed lightly on his feet. “Nail polish is cool!”

Keith’s scowl deepened.

Oh shit.

His mum was right.

The boy was _gorgeous._ Unfairly so. And once Keith began his appreciative once over, he found it impossible to avert his eyes. Though for once, he didn’t try to.

It almost made Keith angry how tanned he was, whether from genetics or regular sun bathing, but as he moved on to his broad swimmer shoulders covered by a thin white tank top with too-large arm holes, his throat dried abruptly his anger forgotten. They were the kind of shoulders Keith liked to imagine his fingers digging crescent moons into and marking up with scratches. They were the kind of shoulders Keith would like to ogle from behind while water trailed slick lines down the flawless skin, maybe marred by freckles and scars. They were the kind of shoulders he looked for in a crowd. Or through writhing bodies in the only gay bar within a two-hundred-mile radius.

His arms were toned and strong, strong enough maybe to hold him up against a wall. Or hold him down. The sort of arms he’d like his legs hooked over or keeping him from bucking. Long fingers were attached to broad palms at the end of his arm and Keith clenched his fist to his side.

Keith trailed his gaze down further, wishing for a moment he was shirtless so perhaps he’d be able to see whether his torso was as good as his shoulders. But sharp collarbones were just as good.

And long, long legs. Strong. Muscled. Tanned. _Hairless._ Like he’d shaved them that day. He wore only turquoise booty shorts with the thread untied and dangling loose and white low-topped converse with those small socks that barely reached the ankle.

Keith blinked once, before darting up to the boy’s face.

Un-fucking-fair. Baby blue eyes. A long thin nose. Teeth that almost gleamed. Feathery brown hair. Shiny pink lips. The boy’s head was tilted.

Fuck, even his face was-

Keith’s face burned. Oh no.

The blinding grin had faltered.

Nancy stood beside the boy with a smug smirk, arms folded like she was judging him. Which she was. _So_ hard.

Shit.

“You’re filthy,” Nancy said. “Didn’t Takashi tell you to clean up two hours ago?”

Shiro snorted quietly. “Oh yeah, I even tried to blackmail him, but he said he didn’t care about that stuff.”

Nancy’s lips twitched.

Keith grimaced. “I don’t see any reason to change my schedule just because there are more people in the house.”

“Guests, Keith,” Nancy said pointedly. “ _Guests.”_

“. . .so?”

Shiro’s rolled his eyes. “My socially stunted brother, people,” he said, and waved his hand in Keith’s direction.

Keith’s nose wrinkled. “You just gestured to all of me.”

“I think that’s the point, son,” Xaviar said. “Go have a shower. Dinner’s almost ready, anyway.”

Sure enough, when Keith turned his head towards the kitchen area, there were ceramic bowls and plates of food stacked atop the kitchen counter with large spoons and tongs sticking out. Coleslaw, toss salad, pasta salad, broccoli salad. And a large roast chicken sat cooking in the fan forced oven with a large tray of baked potato bubbling away happily beneath. The aroma was glorious. He breathed in deep, savouring the smell of chicken and potatoes.

Wordlessly, Keith nodded and marched towards the stairs without glancing towards the three guests.

“Was that a mullet?” the boy—Lance—asked after Keith had left the room.

There came a thud and Lance squawked. “Hey!”

“Don’t antagonise the hosts, we talked about this!”

Keith shoved his door open, slammed it shut and leant against it to bang his head on the wo od hard enough to hurt. “Fuck,” he muttered and covered his eyes. “Should’ve listened. Should’ve fucking listened. Ugh!”

Muffled protests faded into nothing as Keith stormed to his bathroom and turned the water on while seriously reconsidered his life choices. He shucked his clothes into the hamper and stepped under the showerhead.

Maybe he could drown in here and never face them again.

 

***

 

 

Keith came back down a couple hours later, fresh and clean. He’d given his hair a quick wash to rinse grease from the roots and shoved the thick black mess into a bun at the top of his head. And for the sake of his mother’s sanity, changed into a simple black shirt and black jeans. For his own sanity of course, he’d pulled on a shirt with a macabre looking logo and pants with pre-made holes littered all along the front of the leg.

He walked into the main living room feeling distinctly like that man in the vine.

Chaos.

“Pass the gravy please, Hunk,” Nancy said under the dinge of noise.

Hunk sighed and slid the ceramic jug across the small distance. “I’m so sorry about them.”

“—Can’t believe you had the gall to accuse me of—”

“—You hacked into the Pentagon—”

“—I was curious—”

“—Curious?” Lance scoffed. “It was _spite—”_

“Well of course it was spite!” The girl retorted. “It’s me!”

“You’re notorious for hacking into computers, how was I supposed to know it _wasn’t_ you?” Lance asked, before reaching for a glass of water. “Besides, you’d done it before.”

Lance’s eyes flicked up towards Keith seeming to finally catch sight of him just as he sipped some water and did a violent spite-take. Coughing, he blinked furiously, punching his chest. “Oh _shit,”_ he choked, turning away to cough the water from his lungs. “Oh, my God.”

Keith stormed for the last seat. “What?” he asked as he sat down and scooped some potatoes onto his plate.

“You, uh. . .” he fixed his gaze on Keith’s shirt. “You clean up nice.”

Keith frowned at him. “I was covered in grease,” he deadpanned.

“Right, yeah.” Lance’s eyes darted to his face. “Of course.”

With his plate piled high with food, Keith began hastily shoving roast carrots into his mouth, wanting desperately to leave the table already and maybe avoid any further conversation. Lance ground pepper onto his potatoes. The girl stared at Lance with an exasperated expression on her face.

“I love your chicken marinate, Nancy,” Hunk interjected awkwardly into the silence. “I especially like the addition of the sweet-chilli. Adds a pinch of spice.”

Lance stared at him for far longer than was necessary and Keith raised his eyebrow. Lance cleared his throat, eyes shifting to Nancy. “Yeah, it’s really good Nancy. Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome, dear,” she said, smiling evilly.

Keith _did not_ kick her under the table, but it was a near thing.

**Author's Note:**

> What did you think? Comment with ideas I could include in this story. Comment with tips. Comment with screaming. Comment with criticism. Honestly the comments are what makes me want to write, because it means I’m doing something right.
> 
> Anyway. Thanks for reading and I hope you remain for the duration of the ride. 
> 
> Good luck!


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